


how to dress as human

by thethingsyoudoforlove



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Queer Theory, t4t relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethingsyoudoforlove/pseuds/thethingsyoudoforlove
Summary: "We can’t climb the ladder, Ancom, at least not without stepping on someone else’s fingers. We have to knock it the fuck down.”“Anqueer, if you’re trying to comfort me you’re not doing a very good job.”---Ancom has a dysphoria breakdown and Anqueer does their best to support qim.
Relationships: Anarchist Polycule, Anarcho-Communist/Anarcho-Queer (Centricide)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	how to dress as human

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory disclaimer, because this always comes up with this topic, that you don't have to be a pink haired polyam neopnonoun user to be worthy of respect either, and reversing societal norms is not antiassimilationist.
> 
> also i think i'm using the t rating correctly- they say swear words and sex is implied like once but idk it's. pg13?

Ancom’s staring in the bathroom mirror, chronicling qis features, taking note of every curve, every angle, each stray hair and straight line. The new skirt qi’s trying on flounces around qis hips. It’s cute. But it’s not about the skirt, of course- new clothes or no, this is just something Ancom does when qi feels a little… _off_. Qi overanalyzes: does qis best to look nice, and stares in the mirror, and scrutinizes qimself relentlessly. Sometimes qi thinks qi looks fine, and leaves the bathroom feeling much better. Most times, though, qi feels a whole lot worse.

This is one of those times.

Ancom’s not sure how long qi’s been in here. Ancom’s not sure it matters. Ancom has convinced qimself that qi is a fucking abomination, and like drivers passing a car crash on the highway, qi can’t stop staring at qimself. Everything feels _wrong_ \- everything about qi’s face, and body shape, everything qi’s clothes _cover_ , and everything they reveal. And it’s not just the stuff that’s always on qi’s mind- qi’s half-convinced qimself to have _eyebrow dysphoria_ when qi hears a knock on the bathroom door and a “You okay in there? It’s been, like, an hour”.

It’s Anqueer.

 _Fuck_ , qi does _not_ want to talk to Anqueer right now.

It sounds counterintuitive, really. Who would be better to vent to about gender than _Queer Anarchism_? Everyone in the polycule, especially Anqueer, just _gets it_ in a way, say, Tankie ( _why the fuck am I thinking about him right now_ , qi wonders) probably couldn’t’ve if he tried. With the other anarchists, everything’s always about _comfort_ and _healing_. But that’s not always what Ancom wants. Here, the time Ancom broke down because qi couldn’t bear the idea of someone _looking_ at qis body in bed, Anpac held qim while qi cried and Anqueer initiated a long conversation about self-love and boundaries and Annihilist told qim about how he had a lot of insecurity, which he figured was sort of similar to qis dysphoria, and how he dealt with that. But when qi had the same… situation with Tankie, his suggestion was _it’s okay, let’s turn off the lights and get back to what we’re doing_ , and, sure, that wasn’t a breakthrough, but qi wasn’t _expected_ to have a breakthrough, either, and that was… nice. The last thing qi wanted right now was for Anqueer to do that thing where they explained all these _concepts_ at qim like qi was going to have some big revelation.

“Yeah, I’m... gonna be out in a sec,” qi calls out, and _fuck_ , qis voice breaks, and a couple breaths later qi is crying outright, gutteral fucking sobs, qir chest heaving, and qi slides to the floor, back against the wall, face wet with tears, faintly hearing Anqueer jiggle the doorknob.

“I don’t think you _are_ okay. Can I come in?” they ask, clearly worried, and Ancom chokes out an _uh huh_ and there’s the sound of a bobby pin stabbing into the lock and Anqueer’s there beside qim, arms around qis shoulders and qi buries qis head in their chest, sobs muffled, the back of qis mind filling with guilt as qi realizes qi’s getting tears and snot all over their shirt, but it feels so good to be _held_. 

_Anqueer is better at this than me_ , thinks Ancom, _this_ being… well, they’re just better at _being_ , really. Ancom knows that being queer, or nonbinary, or gay, or _whatever_ , isn’t a competition, but fuck, it sure feels like it sometimes, and Ancom sure isn’t winning. Whenever qi talked about gender with Tankie, he would nod, and look like he was listening, and say shit like “I don’t really understand what you’re talking about, but I’m here for you”. But Anqueer _does_ understand what qi’s talking about, and that leaves all these little questions at the back of qis mind- _they can deal with this, why can’t you_ and _they’ve had it worse, why are you complaining_ and _they have it better, how would they understand_ \- and it’s exhausting. 

But here qi is, sobbing in their arms on the cold tile, matching qis breathing to theirs, and yeah, qi feels like nobody’s ever going to love qim, but goddamn this is pretty good evidence against that.

When qi’s calmed down a little, Anqueer helps qim up, and they relocate to Anqueer’s bedroom. Qi’s sitting on their bed, cross-legged and curling into qimself, and Anqueer starts to talk.

“So,” they begin, kneeling in front of qim, leaning forward, concerned, authoritative, “do you want to talk about what’s going on?”

And, yeah, Ancom does, jumping into an explanation about how qi bought this skirt online, and went to try it on, obviously, and qi got a little disappointed in how qi looked, which was normal, but then qis thoughts just started spiraling further and further out of control, and qi just started thinking about everything qi hated about qimself, and qi always did this, and qi didn’t think qi’d ever feel comfortable in feminine clothes, and maybe qi should just accept that that would always be out of reach for qim and just settle back into basically wearing black bloc shit every day, and that’s when Anqueer cuts qim off.

“I don’t think you should give up on yourself so easily,” Anqueer says, laying a hand on Ancom’s thigh. “I mean, I remember when I came about, when we first met, you were still going by he/him, and coming to terms with being gay, and you were miserable! And here you are, a hundred years later, so much closer to living your truth! I know it’s hard, and I’m _sorry_ it’s hard, but isn’t it worth it?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes it’s worth it. I’m- I’m glad I even have the ability to dress like this, but- sometimes it’s just a different kind of misery, y’know?” Anqueer looked confused. _Sigh._ “Like, the ability to be myself just- just forces me to deal with who I am. If it’s not an option, it’s not my problem.”

“But how do you expect to deal with any of this internalized baggage if you can’t air it out?”

 _Anqueer just_ gets it _in a way Tankie probably couldn’t if he tried_ does not mean _Anqueer gets it_. In fact, sometimes Anqueer is so far from getting it that Ancom wants to scream. “It’s not that I don’t think forcing myself to live the life I want is the best way to deal with my internalized shit, it’s that _I don’t want to have anything to deal with in the first place_. I hate that this is something I have to do, and I hate how pointless it all feels.”

“Pointless?”

Ancom flops over to lie on qis back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, I just… Nobody sees my gender how I see it, which _I_ can’t even articulate, and nobody perceives me how I want to be perceived. I’m never gonna pass, I don’t even think I _can_ pass, there’s no way to make random people assume you’re nonbinary, and when I try, I get scared that I’m just _pretending_ , just _performing_ , like I’m faking it- like, it just feels like shitty _drag_ -”

“All gender is drag.”

 _Seriously?_ “Don’t fucking… _Judith Butler_ me right now,” says Ancom, visibly upset. “You know what I fucking mean. I feel like shit, and I just want some reassurance that this is _real_.”

 _Well, gender isn’t real_ , Anqueer thinks, but doesn’t say. 

“I’m sorry, I- that came out wrong,” they start.

“Yeah, it sure fucking did,” says Ancom, clearly hurt. _Shit_. Okay.

“I just meant, like- none of this is just you, okay? This is a made up system with rules nobody can follow and there’s nothing wrong with not going along with it. That’s normal. That’s human.”

“Well, if this is just some universal discontentment, how come nobody listens? How come... how come nobody respects my _stupid_ fucking pronouns-”

“They’re not stupid. Neopronouns are... basically anti-assimilationist praxis,” Anqueer says.

“Yeah, well, if they’re not just another… ridiculous little trait I have, why don’t _you_ use them?” 

Anqueer sighs. “That’s… not how this works, Ancom. I know you want to solve this feeling that you’re doing everything the wrong way with some reassurance that you’re doing this the right way- that there’s some alternate set of rules that you’re actually following perfectly. But I’m not saying qi/qim is high on the list of acceptable pronouns. I’m saying there’s no fucking list.”

Maybe. But that sounded like some shit qi would have to like qimself to believe, so qi kept fighting.

“No, I’ll tell you why. Because you’re… respectable, and I’m a fucking idiot.”

Anqueer raised a single (pierced) eyebrow. “I’m respectable?”

“...Yeah! You’re… fighting for something you believe in. You do what you want, and you can justify all your ideas, and you’re happy! I’m basically everything shitty fascists want people to think _we_ are- I don’t even like myself, and I’m pretty much always high or sad… but _you’re_ living proof of everything you believe in.”

Qi’s clearly on the verge of tears again. Anqueer lies down beside qim, arm around qis shoulders, holding qis hand, fingers interlocking. Ancom fiddles with one of their rings absentmindedly. “Ancom, you’re the only person who sees that.”

“What?”

“ _You’re the only other person who sees that_. C’mon, even the creator of this series wrote both of us as aggressive, easily offended, too open about our gender or sexuality, because those are, like, the most recognizable stereotypes of _both of us_. It doesn’t matter what you or I think is more palatable, because anyone who claims to have some cherrypicked half-respect for one of us is a fucking liar. Neither of us are respectable to cisheteronormative society, Ancom, and neither is your cis gay ex who’s in some masc4masc authoritarian unity phase right now, and neither- well, neither are any of us.”

“Well, maybe, but-”

“No buts, Ancom. Begging all of cisheteronormative society to accept us is futile. I don’t want politicians conceding that if I’m chaste and monogamous I can have two and a half kids and a white picket fence in the suburbs. I don’t want priests conceding that they’ll love the sinner. I don’t want the state to put an X on my ID to mark me as the acceptable third gender. We can’t climb the ladder, Ancom, at least not without stepping on someone else’s fingers. We have to knock it the fuck down.”

Ancom knows this, deep down. Qi knows this about capitalism, about the state, but qi doesn’t want it to be true, not here. “Anqueer, if you’re trying to comfort me you’re not doing a very good job.”

And Anqueer knows _this_ , hugging Ancom tighter to make up for the failure of their words, searching for an explanation of why they find this so liberating.. “I know you’re hurting,” they begin, “and I know you feel like you’re never going to be accepted by these segments of society, some of these other ideologies. And I know you don’t want to give up on trying to _make the community look good_ , and me affirming that rejection and telling you to embrace it sounds fucked up and hopeless, but there’s… there’s a flip side to this too.”

“Tell me about it,” says Ancom in a small voice, still shaky from the crying. Anqueer brushes the wet curls from qis face.

“It’s... this, Ancom. Look at us. Look at _all_ of us, here, together. We might not have mainstream acceptance, or assimilation, but we have each other. We have solidarity, and freedom, and we have a vision far brighter than anything conformity can offer. We’re what a world without restrictive norms looks like, and people want that. Plenty of cishet people can come to want that, too. I’m not building any white picket fences, but I’m happy to see anyone else plant a community garden, y’know?”

Ancom nods. Qi’s not totally sure how this connects back to not crying in the bathroom anymore, but qi feels a little better.

“I know a lot of this feels abstract, and vague, and it’s not gonna solve every bad feeling you have, and we don’t have to talk about this anymore. I know I can be a little much, but I love you, Ancom, and you’re absolutely beautiful, and it breaks my heart to see you in pain. But this comparison, this competition, this whole assimilationist narrative, it’s damaging, and it’s always going to come back to hit you the hardest. And I just- I wanna help you through that. Okay?”

Ancom smiles, weakly, but it’s still a smile. 

“Okay.”

After a long moment holding each other, Anqueer remembers they need to replace their shirt, and the pair separate. Ancom takes off qis skirt- qi’ll try wearing it again another day- and pulls on a pair of jeans. Anqueer turns around to look at qim, beaming.

“You’re so fucking pretty, it’s _unbelievable_ ,” they whisper, pulling Ancom in to kiss qim on the head. 

Qi blushes. “You don’t have to do that, y’know.”

“Just thinking out loud, babe,” they say, taking qis hand in theirs, and they make their way out to the living room. The pair joins the other anarchists, who are piled in front of the TV, watching some extraordinarily long breadtube video explaining video games, or Steven Crowder, or something. Someone finds a bottle of black nail polish, and Ancom asks Anqueer to paint qis nails, which they do, holding qis hands steady as they apply nice, even strokes. Qi looks down at qis hands, and doesn’t feel ashamed, just… happy. And it’s such a small touch, but it’s something.

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> i started out to write gender venting ancom/anqueer fic, but it turned into a dialogue on reconciling antiassimilationist queer theory with the desire to be normal/accepted, and expressing this kind of emotional disconnect between being like “fuck what other people think do what you want” and wanting to be accepted really bad, which is hopefully something other people can relate to.
> 
> hmu on tumblr @anarkittie i post fanart a lot
> 
> also the title is from the laura les song _how to dress as human_ , link below
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/osno1/how-to-dress-as-human


End file.
